A Taste for Delicacies
by hieronymuslies
Summary: Bernard's conscience is bothering him again. slash Sir Humphrey/Bernard
1. Chapter 1

Bernard was on his stomach, shirt off, lost in the hallway, or maybe on the floor by the bed, or maybe that was Sir Humphrey's – he couldn't remember. His eyes were closed and he could feel a warm mouth at the base of his neck, sucking gently as a hand thread through his hair. He could remember Sir Humphrey saying something about getting it over with, that perhaps it would _stop_ once they had – Something about wanting it to stop, needing it to, Bernard had never seen him look the way he did. Sir Humphrey was never vulnerable. Even when looking vulnerable he wasn't vulnerable. Bernard was sure of this.

A brush of fabric on his back and he knew it was his shirt on the floor by the bed, that the hallway was empty, and that Sir Humphrey was far too clothed but there was very little he could do about it. The hand in his hair was gone, suddenly on his hip and very warm, too warm almost. And the silence in the room was crushing, even as he was rolled over, their lips against each other again, fingers undoing the belt and cool air was on his thighs. There was the silence. Pressing as Sir Humphrey kissed along his jaw, pressing as he gasped softly his own fingers racking through hair before returning to the bed, knuckles as white as the sheets. The back of his mind was telling him that he really ought not to be doing this, that he really ought to stop Sir Humphrey, that he really ought to remind him that they work together, that they're married, that they have careers, that they work for government, that -

"Stop thinking," was mumbled against his neck, he could feel a hand cupping the back of his head.

"Sir Humphrey?"

"You're thinking, Bernard," the older man murmured as he pulled back. Their eyes met for the first time in the evening. "As much as I appreciate the effort, this is not the time for it."

"Sir Humphrey," he paused, aware that their chests were touching, that the older man's thigh was between his, that the had four buttons undone and hanging loose so he could see down – "Is this right?"

"Your conscience bothering you again, Bernard?"

"Er, yes." He tried to smile, he didn't think t worked.

The air was still and Bernard looked away, pulling a face, waiting for the rebuttal he knew would come. A minute passed and he looked back to find Sir Humphrey watching him, expression unreadable.

"Sir Humphrey?" He whispered, afraid to move.

"No, Bernard," the older man drawled, sitting back on Bernard's hips.

"Sorry?"

"You're going to have to figure that one out yourself."


	2. Chapter 2

The day was crisp and Bernard could see the sun blurred by clouds, or perhaps it was the gauze from the curtains, or the sleep that clouded his eyes, or the haze that seemed to have settled over his mind. Eyes closed, fingers rubbing them, then the bridge of his nose, willing away the heavy drowsiness that seemed to be keeping him pressed into the warm sheets.

There were memories slipping through his mind, of lips on lips, of hands on hips then chest then hair and back again, of fabric on skin, rubbing, chaffing, of sounds that he could barely recall, barely understand yet had seemed so needed at the time. Of words. Words. Words that had to be said then that he so wished _hadn't_ been said. Or were the words just in his head? He hadn't remembered his lips forming them, but then he had been so _tired_ they might have. Good lord they might have.

Hand reaching out he felt the barely there impression, barely warm, and rolling over he found it still smelled of aftershave. A smell that was so distinctively different from what he was used to. So distinctively comforting. He was not pleased.

"Bernard, dear," catching a yawn he hummed a reply into the phone. "Bernard, you didn't pick up last night."

"Oh, well, I was uh, busy."

"At eleven?" Mara's voice was questioning, unsure, and something his cousin said came back to him. He had been asked how marriage was, blissful he had replied, then his cousin laughed out a reply. Something about giving it three years. He couldn't recall and he was fishing through his mind for an excuse. For the forgetfulness or why he was busy at eleven in the evening he wasn't sure.

"There was a meeting, dinner meeting, interdepartmental, and it lasted longer than I thought it would."

A sigh through the line and he glanced at the clock, lunch in fifteen.

"Well, I was calling to say mother is worse than I thought. I'm going to be in York a bit longer than I expected," a pause, he replied with a sympathetic noise. Sir Humphrey was standing in the doorway and he suddenly needed to be off the phone. "I'm sorry Bernard, I hope you understand."

"Of course, dear. I hope she improves."

A reply, he registered but couldn't be bothered to remember and the line went dead. Sir Humphrey was standing in front of him and Bernard wondered when he had moved, he swore he had watched him the entire time.

"Free for lunch, Bernard?" The older man peered down at him, disinterested at best, the files in his hands probably helped. Or so Bernard reasoned, hoped, perhaps even prayed. If he had been the praying type.

"Uh, I suppose so, if you so desire, of course I'll have to check, but I'm reasonably sure - "

"Is that a yes?"

"Um, yes."

"Good." Lips twitched up as the younger man stood, blindly reaching for papers, folders, any excuse he could use to discuss work. Work was safe, work was impartial, work allowed their old structured relationship to continue.

"Is anyone else coming?" He asked as they made their way down the hall, eyes fixated on the path ahead.

"No," Sir Humphrey glanced his way, eyebrows lifted in silent question. A silent question that was ignored. "Were you hoping there would be someone else?"

"No, well, that is, I wasn't sure, I mean, you usually eat with Sir Arnold or Sir Frank, and I wasn't sure if this was business."

"If you're going to be obtuse, Bernard, please do so with an expanded vocabulary."

"Of course, Sir Humphrey."

"And no one is coming because I thought," he stopped, frowning. Files were shifted to the other hand.

"Thought what?"

"Nothing. How's the prime minister?"


	3. Chapter 3

Sir Humphrey's arm was around his waist when he woke. Two days, his mind reminded him. Two days and this ends. Two days and life goes back to normal. The breath on the back of his neck made him shiver and the arm tightened, pulling him closer. The sheets were half on, tangled around legs and pulled tight against his hip. A shift in the bed and Sir Humphrey rolled away, one arm still caught under Bernard.

"Sir Humphrey," he whispered into the dark knowing the older man was asleep. "I don't want to be," he paused. Be what? Like him. Mara liked to remind that she married Bernard Woolley, not Sir Humphrey Appleby and she would prefer it to remain that way. But there were times when what happened seemed so _normal _it was painful. Times when Sir Humphrey's logic made perfect sense, when Sir Humphrey's body pressed against his made perfect sense. Times when lying in bed and waking up to that particular smell, that particular feeling, was better than most mornings. Times when he felt like picking up with Mara and moving somewhere else, somewhere where it wouldn't be so complicated, somewhere without Sir Humphrey.

"Bernard," it was mumbled against his shoulder and looking over he saw that the older man had rolled back against him.

"Hm?" He remained on his back, staring up at the ceiling he had long ago memorized.

"Why are you awake?" The arm was back along his waist.

"Thinking."

"Never a smart idea at night."

"Why's that?"

"You might become introspective."

Bernard allowed himself a smile, lips were pressed against his shoulder.

"And that's bad?" He asked, keeping his gaze firmly on the ceiling.

"Of course, you might want to change things, reform yourself or some other such nonsense."

Not replying Bernard rolled so he was facing Sir Humphrey, watching him quietly. The older man's eyes were dark, tired. His shirt was still on, though half unbuttoned and Bernard wondered why he hadn't completed the task. Reaching down he undid a button, then another when Sir Humphrey's hand caught his, eyes still locked.

"Good night, Bernard." He whispered it as he placed the hand on his waist and closed his eyes. Bernard watched him sleep thinking all the while of cold offices and dark hallways that seemed to be filled with eyes, watching, watching, watching.

Sir Humphrey was gone before the alarm went off and Bernard could hardly expect otherwise. Waking up in the morning would mean something, something more than what it was. Whatever it was. The other side of the bed was cool and he wondered when exactly the older man had slipped from the room, a vague recollection of the bed being far too empty half an hour after the mumbled, drowsy, conversation. Or maybe sooner, or later.

The flashing light on the answering machine and Bernard duly ignored it as he ran the shower hoping that the scalding water would solve something, even if it was just his exhaustion. There were memories he was beginning to regret having yet, yet, there was always the _yet_. A word he had begun to hate and _yet_ –

"Sir Humphrey," he stood by the door to the older one's office, lingering just shy of the threshold. "You called?"

Flick of the wrist and he was obligated to enter, ignoring his knowledge that Sir Humphrey had very nice hands, that they were soft, deft, that he had felt them on his body almost every night for what seemed like forever. What might have been forever for what it was worth. Lord how he hated it.

"I've been hearing some interesting things, Bernard."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Sir Humphrey." He kept his gaze on the pen holder. Sir Humphrey's fingers were just beyond his gaze and the older man's eyes were sinking into him.

"Things concerning _you_."

"Ah."

"Tell me, Bernard, how is the prime minister?"

Looking up he met Sir Humphrey's gaze, impartial yet all the more threatening for that.

"Fine, busy."

"Doing what?"

"Er, looking into a road building project in Manchester."

"_Is_ he?" The look became pointed, Bernard could feel something in him sink.

"Yes. Shall I find something else for him to do?"

A smile spread over Sir Humphrey's face reminding the younger man of why it was all happening to begin with. Why he still was going along with it.

"That would be a good idea, Bernard."

"Sir Humphrey."

"Yes?"

Their eyes met, Bernard swore he saw something flicker in Sir Humphrey's, something dark, something that meant more than he would ever say aloud.

"Could we do dinner. No," he frowned, "we will do dinner." The older man's expression was incredulous. "I need. We need. To do dinner."

Silence as Sir Humphrey watched him, lips parted before pursing and giving a brief nod.


	4. Chapter 4

I suppose it's kosher to give replies to the comments. I would like to say thank you for following this thing. It really means a lot sine this is such a small fandom. A brief explanation of why I'm writing the characters this way.

I don't see Humphrey and Bernard having an easy relationship outside of work. H. is far too logical to want to be entangled in emotional affairs and B. would be intimidated and imposed upon by their working relationship. H. appears rather cold because I don't think he would handle romantic emotions well. I'm not sure what he feels for Bernard, affection most likely, they're not the types to be declaring love. I'm not sure he knows what he feels for that matter.

Overall I'm not actually pleased with how this turned out (I have it finished and am uploading whenever I get a chance). I have Nabokov's perfection streak without his patience or talent which _is_ rather unfortunate. In any case I am done rambling and I am glad to see you enjoying it. It was your comment that made me continue, it was supposed to be a one shot. Hence the reason the flow well..._isn't_.

--

He wasn't sure if he really ought to do anything about it. The logic of the situation kept ringing in his ears. He enjoyed it, Sir Humphrey apparently enjoyed, or at least had nothing against it, and no one was really _hurt_ by it. Or at least, not substantially so. Yet, yet (always the bloody 'yet') there was lingering doubt in his mind. It was too grey for his liking, too uncertain. What were they doing? Why were they doing it? When was it going to end? What is _it_ in the first place?

Food was pushed around on his plate as he duly ignored Sir Humphrey's questioning gaze. The wine was excellent, the food better than anything he had eaten recently, and the atmosphere correct for the circumstance. It had been far too long since he had been wine and dined in such a manner, he stopped and glanced up, in fact he had never really _been _wined and dined. The roles were usually reverse in such a situation, and of course he could hardly afford the kind of show Sir Humphrey put on.

"Bernard, I would appreciate it greatly if you would help with the conversation," Sir Humphrey murmured, pouring them both another glass. "You're usually quite willing to carry on the torch of civil exchanges."

"I'm sorry, Sir Humphrey," he replied with a guilty smile. "I was just distracted," he paused, no response, just a sip of wine as the cool eyes watched him silently, if a little concerned. "Thank you for dinner, though I had meant to be the one doing the taking."

The older man's face relaxed and an easy smile broke out, "well you can do the taking next time."

"Er, well, that's what I wanted to talk to you about." He could feel heat under his collar and shifted in his seat as the temperature seemed to rise. "About, well, our arrangement."

"Later, Bernard," their eyes met. "In private. Now, refresh my memory, do you enjoy opera at all?"

"Oh, well, I suppose so. I've not really gone much."

A tsking noise and mocking disapproval and Bernard felt the heat travel from his neck to his stomach, the warmth in his chest as he remembered how much he enjoyed the other's company.

"Shame on you, to neglect your cultural education."

"Well I wouldn't say that, I just didn't focus on opera."

"Which is the crowning glory of culture," a smirking smile. "But don't worry, I know full well your love for Cicero, you're not a complete loss."

"I'm glad you think so," he replied with a mirrored smile and Sir Humphrey laughed while nodding, murmuring his accent.

--

A glass of brandy each in Sir Humphrey's home office and Bernard was feeling more and more like a small child, or a prepubescent boy infront of some pretty girl before a dance. Sir Humphrey had been in a congenial mood through the rest of the dinner, going so far as to let their fingers brush when passing him the bottle of wine, or holding the door open for him. They spoke of Cicero and Petrarch, of humanists versus scholastics, of cravats versus ties, of cabaret and dance halls, of new worlds and old, of pride and of prejudice, of sense versus sensibility, of Paris and London, of history, of music, of dancing, of games, of nothing at all and everything all at once. Standing just inside the door, Sir Humphrey's back pressed against it they had kissed like young lovers rejoined, hands around waists and pressing at the back of necks, chests against each other, tongues exploring the each other's mouths, and he had been loath to pull away.

"So what did you want to discuss?" Sir Humphrey asked as he took the chair opposite Bernard's. Glasses were seated on the small table between them and Bernard was never so adverse to beginning a subject as he was then.

"I, well, I felt that we ought to, well, discuss, deliberate, decide, what we are doing in this current arrangement which, I do, for the most part, find congenial and I think you do as well, so I would like to keep it that way. And I wanted to know, well, your thoughts on it."

The older man didn't reply immediately, watched the liquid move around the glass in hand, tapped his foot a few beats before finally looking up, meeting Bernard's apprehensive gaze.

"You've a very expressive face, Bernard," he said with lips pursed.

"Oh, well, thank you."

A wave of the hand and Bernard glanced down to his drink then back up to find Sir Humphrey watching him with a curious expression.

"What do you think we're doing?"

"Er, having drinks – oh, that. Um, well, having an, an affaire." The last word was whispered, a glance to the door.

"My wife is out for the evening, visiting a friend."

"Jolly good."

"Yes, well, I trust he keeps her entertained," it was said in passing and Bernard did he best not to appear shocked. The parallels not hitting him till moments later and Sir Humphrey chuckled at his realization. "Yes, Bernard, we are having an affaire. One that could potentially ruin both of our careers but I seriously doubt it will." He paused again, setting the glass down and steepling his fingers. "What, exactly, do you want to know?"

"Well, I suppose, _why_."

"Why what, Bernard? Specifics, please."

"Well, _why_ are we, er, doing this?"

"Having an affaire," a pointed lok and Bernard nodded guiltily. "Because, I, suppose, we both wanted to. These things hardly have reason you know. Not satisfied at home, for whatever reasons, bored perhaps, or tired of the monotony of everyday life," he shrugged as he reached for his glass. "There are a multitude of reasons why affaires start."

"Yes, well...I suppose so."

Silence again, and Bernard was afraid that much of evening would be spent in such a way. Sir Humphrey was complacent, regarding him with a soft look, drink resting on the arm of his chair. Bernard felt muscles cramping, a pain between his shoulder blades as he desperately tried to relax.

"What you want is validation," Sir Humphrey said at last. "Validation for why you're cheating on your wife, your _new_ wife. Why you're lying to her, to yourself, to your friends, to your family, to the minister even. But most importantly, yourself. What you want is a good reason for doing all these things, isn't it, Bernard?"

"I," he paused, lips parted as he returned the older man's even stare. There was no judgement in it, no questioning, just something, something that Bernard couldn't put his finger on. He would say understanding, but he didn't think it was that. Sir Humphrey wouldn't have these doubts, he was sure, Sir Humphrey would have worked out everything already, wouldn't have unnecessary worries or concerns over the moral aspect of the act. Sir Humphrey was not vulnerable, after all. "I suppose so," he finally said, feeling shoulders relax as he sank back into the chair.

"You want to have a clear conscience." The look became pointed.

"Yes."

"You don't want to be like me."

The temperature plummeted and rose simultaneously in the room.

"Er - "

"A 'moral vacuum' to coin the prime minister's phrase."

A beat. A sigh.

"No."

Sir Humphrey nodded, lips pulling into a frown. He considered the drink, still resting on the arm of his chair before looking back to Bernard, nodding to himself.

Heaving a sigh he shifted his weight, crossing legs, and leaning on his left arm. "I don't have an answer for you. I don't have an answer because I don't know, I've never known, and probably never will, all things considered." A pause, and Sir Humphrey's gaze never left the table between them. "This is your battle, I'm resigned to the situation."

"But, don't you want it organized? Don't you want to understand it?"

"I do understand it, Bernard! I understand the facts just as you do. Fact, I want you. Fact, you want me. Fact, we fuck each other when we can. Fact, I am not adverse to spending time with you aside from bedroom activities. Fact, you are not adverse to same thing. Fact, we are both married. Fact, my wife is having an affaire and I don't care less. Fact, you like your wife, but you don't love her and you're wondering if you ever did. Fact, this is going to be messy, regardless. Fact, neither of us know the reason _why_. And _that_, my dear Bernard, is something you are going to have to accept."


	5. Chapter 5

Why thank you for your reply. It was very considerate of you. And I enjoy exploring the darker aspects of characters. It's something comedy lends itself splendidly to, since there is always a black side to it, especially in Yes P/Minister.

My only qualm with calling Humphrey a moral vacuum is that he is aware of morals. He knows when a situation is right or wrong, he admits it regularly, he just doesn't act on it. He's more of a whiskey priest (to borrow the phrase) than Hacker is. Moral vacuum implies that he isn't even aware of what is right and wrong. There's a difference between not knowing and not caring. Though, one could argue that it is even worse in knowing what is right and not acting on it. But, at the same time, I think Humphrey occasionally believes that what he is doing is right. But this has great potential to escalate into a philosophical discussion which I don't really have space to address.

This is the end of it. My apologies for the slight ambivalence of it, there was no real way to end it other than this.

So, thank you for following. Again, I appreciate it. And to the others (if there are any) who followed but didn't review. Hope you enjoyed.

--

"My wife is coming home in a day," Bernard murmured later that evening, he felt Sir Humphrey hum a reply against his skin. "I think," he stopped, eyes flickering around the unfamiliar room, wondering if this was how Sir Humphrey felt when they were in his room. "I think we ought to stop this, when, uh, when she returns."

A shift in the bed and the older man propped himself up on elbows, regarding the other man with solemn eyes.

"It wont clear your conscience, you know, to stop."

"But it wont help it to continue and if the misery outweighs the happiness, is it worth continuing?"

"Does it?"

A pause and Bernard frowned, trying to remember.

"I don't know."

The sheets ruffled as Sir Humphrey laid back down, wrapping arms around Bernard's waist, pulling him close. The younger man could feel buttons of Sir Humphrey's shirt pressing against his stomach, shifting he freed a hand and began tracing up thighs to hip then up his stomach, slipping under the fabric, feeling the older man stilling under his touch. With his other hand he began slowly unbuttoning the shirt, getting down to the lower ribcage before beging stopped, warm lips on his fingers before they were placed elsewhere. Eyes were dark and questioning and Bernard wished he had the answers.

--

Sheets were washed as soon as he got home from work. The bathroom was cleaned, shower scrubbed, living room neatened, couch taken apart then put back together when he remembered that Sir Humphrey had lost a cufflink there. Dishes were done, groceries bought, and everything looked much as it had been left. As if no one had been there for the past fortnight. And it probably would have been better if no one _had _been there.

Mara was delighted to see him, a knight back from a successful battle. Her mother was much improved, she declared as she kissed him and he was reminded that her waist was much smaller than Sir Humphrey's and that she smelled like something he couldn't put his finger on but it was _sweet_.

"I'm glad to hear that," he said as he helped her unpack, watching her move about the room it seemed suddenly very unfamiliar. "What did the doctors say?"

"That she ought to stop smoking, since that's only making it worse, and that otherwise, with time, she'll get better."

He watched her cross the room to the bathroom, leaning against the counter as she rearranged her makeup. A memory flashed across his mind and he turned away, ignoring the image of Sir humphrey seated on the counter, half dressed, with Bernard kneeling between his thighs, fingers caught in his hair. He had been moaning sweetly, a sound that Bernard learned to crave.

"Are you allright, dear?" Mara's arms were suddenly around him, her face infront of his, her lips on his cheek. "You seem awfully quiet."

"Oh, I was, I am just tired. It's been stressful at work lately."

She made a sympathetic noise and rested her head on his chest, rocking them both gently. A second passed before he finally returned the gesture, wrapping arms around her and wondering what exactly he was doing.

--

There was coffee between them, the leaves of the spreading chestnut tree shading them from the sun. Bernard was continually amazed by the places Sir Humphrey discovered. A week had passed since Mara returned and he was still lingering, struggling to decide what exactly he ought to do. Each time he settled on a decision something would convince him to reverse and all the while the question of whether or not this made him happy lingered. Was this what he wanted? What he needed? The answer always changed.

"Bernard, you seem pensive." Sir Humphrey murmured, setting the cup down and leaning back, watching the younger man with an impassive face.

"I was just thinking, that well." He paused, unsure of exactly what he had been thinking, what he was intending to say. Sir Humphrey's face had formed a half smile, the sun was dappling the pavement, the coffee was warm and good, they were eyes level now as the older man mimicked his position of elbows on knees, and he could feel the dark gaze sinking into him making him wish that they were elsewhere, anywhere.

Reaching forward Sir Humphrey cupped the side of Bernard's face, stroking gently, half smile still lingering.

"My poor, Bernard," he murmured. They were leaning closer and Bernard was thankful that the cool weather had kept everyone inside.

"Sir Humphrey," his voice was rough, even to his own ears. "Sir Humphrey," he had to say it, whatever it was. "I think we ought to -"

And his mind went black as warm lips pressed against his and a whisper of "I know, I know" brushed against his ears.

--


End file.
